The car quieted, all eyes fixed on him.“I’m praying for her.”
“As we all are,” Mike said, clapping him on the back.
He nodded, his throat tight.But it felt weird to be the odd man out here, knowing everyone else was in a committed relationship while he was playing tag with his hopes.
Maybe Mike sensed that, because he changed the subject to the recent celebrations that Luc and his Winnipeg team had enjoyed, as they celebrated their maiden Stanley Cup.
The evening passed with more jokes and less alcohol than Kyle had seen on similar nights out.It seemed these guys didn’t need to be liquored up to have a good time.Mitch was in his element, telling jokes, singing karaoke, eating big, swapping stories.
But the man once known for his huge hits, who had at various times taken on and crushed most of his guests tonight, was definitely a little softer than the last encounter Kyle remembered on the ice.Mitch was kinder, generous, and it was obvious he adored his bookish wife-to-be.Britta was apparently having her bachelorette party as a Regency-themed high tea, whatever that was.
“I mean, she chose me when she wanted Mr.Darcy so that’s saying something.”
“Who’s he?”Kyle teased.
“Huh.And I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in the bunch.”
“Hey!”Zac protested.
“Just statin’ facts.”
“I know who he is,” Kyle declared.“He’s the dude who made a million women weep with a hand flex.”
“Man, do not say that to Britta,” Mitch warned.“She thinks that version is the pits.”
“I’ll be sure not to,” he said, smiling.
The evening passed, and the next few days did too, but he couldn’t help but notice how the various events showed how much the others felt relaxed.Him?Not so much.He put it down to them all being here with their wives or girlfriends, which made him long—hard—for Gen to occupy that status one day.
And on Saturday, as the minister asked Mitch if he took Britta to be his lawful wedded wife, Kyle’s heart twisted painfully.He wasn’t jealous.But he was filled with regrets.
Having Gen stay—even if it had been accidentally—the other night had only fueled his desire for more.
This could’ve been them if he hadn’t given up.If he hadn’t been so focused on his career instead of her.Her, waking up at their house, him making her breakfast—that could’ve been their normal.
Instead, thanks to fear or selfish focus, he’d ensured they’d parted, creating deep division.A sense of strain remained, even if it seemed to be easing a little more with each encounter.But it wasn’t fast enough.He wanted more, now.And yes, she needed salvation—Mitch and Britta’s wedding service showed that two people needed to be equally yoked in matters of faith—but that would happen.Ithadto happen.Gen was his person.She always had been.He loved her.Couldn’t wait to see her.To let her know how he felt.
He tuned in to the vows being made.
“…and I promise to love you, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.”
Kyle’s chest grew tight, as the room seemed to take a collective breath in recognition that these weren’t just words, but poignantly true.Mitch’s history of concussions meant there was a strong likelihood that he might die younger than most.The diagnosis of CTE hovered like a specter in the air.
But Mitch and Britta were determined to make the most of whatever time they had left, to love while they could.Life was short, carpe diem, seize the day, and all that.
And yes, he wanted to seize this moment with Gen.His heart hungered for her.He wished she was here.He’d call her tonight if he could.
Because standing here, cheering his friend who was kissing his new bride, Kyle recognized now that he wanted the same.
And the only candidate for wife-dom in his world was the one person it had always been.
Gen.
* * *
Saturday nightat Seattle General’s emergency department was always a fascinating insight into human nature.From drug addicts to drunken teens to domestic violence victims and the usual car crash vics, chest pains, broken limbs and lacerations, they saw them all.And along the way she treated the deserving, the undeserving, the grateful and those who couldn’t care less.And tried not to take it personally when people abused her, spat or vomited on or hit her.She knew they either couldn’t help it or lashed out because they were in pain.But come on.She was only doing her job.
Those kinds of patients made treating people like little Emeralda, whose identity documents and insurance were mysteriously waylaid, far more enjoyable, even though there had been a lot of tears.
